


The Twelve Gifts of Camelot AKA Watch What You Say in the Presence of Dragons

by cellist



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 12 Days of Christmas, Arthur is Besieged by Birds, Arthur is Suspicious, Camelot, Crack Treated Seriously, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Merlin is a Little Shit, Oblivious Arthur, Of the Feathered Kind, Pelted by Pears, The Dragon is a Little Shit, With help from the Dragon, merlin and arthur get together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28283103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellist/pseuds/cellist
Summary: What if the 12 Days of Christmas originated during a few fateful days in Camelot? Just what could cause Partridges, French Hens and a multitude of dancing and musical people to descend on Albion's hallowed halls?AKA when Kilgarrah the Dragon decided to help Merlin out, even when he didn't really want him to, to woo Prince Arthur. And as you can guess, hilarity ensues…Happy Christmas/Solstice/Winter!
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28





	The Twelve Gifts of Camelot AKA Watch What You Say in the Presence of Dragons

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a crack but not total crack story, based on the 12 Days of Christmas. When you get to what we now sing as 'Four Calling Birds', I've gone for the oldest version of the song that I can (though it's still no where near medieval) and used 'Four Colly Birds'. I'm a bit of a nerd…
> 
> I had a lot of fun writing this, and hope you enjoy reading it just as much!

**Day 1 – The Hunt**

**The Partridge’s Revenge**

Merlin’s not quite sure why he looks up at that particular moment. They’ve been traipsing through the wood for what seems like days but can only be a couple of hours at most, but when Arthur’s determined to kill something, it usually turns into a vendetta against nature. Maybe it was the way the sun glinted, or perhaps he just felt the beady eyes watching him. Mostly, Merlin realises it was because of the rather ripe and full pear that fell on Arthur’s head, and the disgruntled yelp it causes to fall from his lips. Following the pear’s trajectory, his eyes land on a recalcitrant looking bird, half hidden in suspiciously leafy foliage, its striped face wearing a look of superiority to beat even Uther’s.

“What the _hell_ just happened?” Arthur is still rubbing the spot on top of his head with one hand, the crossbow dangling, forgotten, from the other.

“Erm, I think that bird just dropped a pear on your head.” He realises the stupidity of the sentence as soon as he says it, and Arthur’s eyes whip around to pin him in place.

“A _pear_ ; a _bird_ dropped a _pear_ on my head, in the _middle of winter_?”

“Well, when you put it like that...” Pulling his eyes away from Arthur’s incredulous ones, Merlin points up to where the bird is still roosting, looking far too smug. “But that looks awfully like a pear tree to me. And, well, that _is_ a bird, right? Two wings, feathers, sharp pointy beak...”

“I know what a bird looks like, Merlin! But it’s physically impossible!” Biting his tongue, Merlin smirks to himself, only too aware of what _is_ and _isn’t_ physically possible on a near daily basis.

“That may be so, but it’s still there.” For a moment they both stare at the small tree, dwarfed by the others around them. Then Merlin coughs, breaking Arthur’s staggered stupor. “So, what do we do? It’s not exactly natural, is it?” He implies the use of magic, just as a test, yet another small thing that his brain makes him do, against his better judgement.

“We kill it.” Another pear sails out of the tree as punctuation, this time skimming past Arthur’s nose. “Sooner rather than later, preferably.” And he swings the crossbow up, sighting along its length.

“Ah, remember Anhora?” There’s the barest flicker of unease that washes over Arthur, the embarrassment he felt after heroically sacrificing himself only to wake up with the mother of all hangovers afterwards obviously coming to mind. “Would it be better to maybe leave well alone?” Arthur hesitates and Merlin waits, patiently, knowing that he’ll make the right decision, even if it pains him to do it.

“I think it’ll be better to leave it alone. Of course we’ll have to keep an eye on it, make sure it’s not some sorcerer in disguise.” Smiling to himself, Merlin grunts in an agreeable way and Arthur turns away, apparently deciding to cope with the random appearance by ignoring it completely. Glancing back up at the bird, Merlin inclines his head slightly, respectfully. The bird’s a good aim, and the last thing he wants is to be knocked unconscious by a pear.

As they wander away, he hears an unrepentant chirping from behind him and then a third, and final, pear passes by his head, hitting Arthur square between the shoulder blades.

He doesn’t turn around.

**Two Turtle Doves**

Hours pass. The incident with the pears is nearly forgotten, (apart from when they stop for a short lunch and Merlin has the audacity to suggest going back for the fruit), and Arthur manages to kill at least one living creature. The fact that it was by sheer accident, and also not technically an animal, doesn’t seem to bother him. It’s all about the hunt – whether it ends up being for a rabbit, deer or, in this case, miniscule snail.

It’s as they’re about to set off again, in yet another direction that looks much the same as the last one they took, that they hear it. Arthur immediately stills and raises his finger heavenward. Sighing, Merlin obediently stops and cocks his head, trying to pinpoint where the sound is coming from.

“What _is_ that?” Merlin shrugs, the sound gaining in volume. “Well?”

“Well, ‘what’, Sire?” For a second it looks as though the vein at Arthur’s temple is about to explode, but he manages to contain it, grinding his teeth together instead. He’s far too aware of how much Merlin enjoyed the pear-throwing of earlier, the deliberately innocent expression on his features now only serving to make Arthur’s temper rise further.

“The _noise_ , Merlin; what is it?” It’s on the tip of Merlin’s tongue to come back with another retort, but at that moment, two birds come into view. Their pale grey plumage is stark against the dark woods, wings beating as they circle and swoop around each other.

“It appears to be...birds...” They stand in mystified silence as the two continue to dance around each other, sometimes darting closer together, at others further apart. If it wasn’t the depths of winter, Merlin could swear that they were doing some kind of mating ritual, although it’s not just the season that appears to be wrong with that idea.

“Merlin, are they mating?” Arthur’s tone is low and unsure as the two creatures alight on the nearest branch, apparently set aside for precisely this purpose as they coo and fawn over each other.

“I hope not,” Arthur glances at him and he realises that he is completely oblivious to the problem that is staring Merlin in the face. “They’re both male, Sire.”

“Oh… _oh_.” Eyes opening comically wide, Arthur turns back to the birds with a new curiosity lighting his face. Merlin has to admit, he’s never seen anything quite like it, and – he also hates to acknowledge – he’s finding it frighteningly interesting.

They watch in rapt silence for a while longer, until the steadily increasing shrillness of the calls of the two birds is enough to force them away. Stumbling over tree roots, Arthur shakes his head and looks at Merlin far too closely.

“That was...informative, wasn’t it?” There’s no way Merlin can meet his eyes, and there’s no way he can trust his voice to speak. He just trudges onwards, trying to block out the image of Arthur with feathers from his mind and grunts, non-committal, hoping that Arthur will just drop the subject altogether.

Luckily, he does.

**Three French Hens**

Every time Merlin hears a flutter of wings, he tends to flinch and alternately duck the invisible flying fruit or dart his head around until he’s sure there’s no fornicating going on.

The night is drawing in, and Arthur has finally given up trying to kill everything in sight, settling instead for taking home a pair of rabbits that were unfortunate enough to stray across their path. And even then, it was with a healthy burst of magic from Merlin and a muttered _ætíewan_ to help them on their way.

They break through the tree line and make their way slowly along the pathway back to Camelot, its pale towers rising through the branches a short distance away. Arthur has deliberately not mentioned the occurrences in the forest, and for once, Merlin is eternally grateful.

Hefting the brace of rabbits higher on his shoulder, Merlin watches as Arthur strides ahead, his every step screaming of his importance and the very fact that yes, he does indeed own the earth he walks upon. Or he will do, one day in the future.

Of course, this effect is ruined by the fluttering of wings that they hear as soon as they clear the main archway and step inside the castle walls. Merlin’s immediately on guard, mind whirling through what else birds could possibly carry as ammunition to bombard either himself or Arthur with. In front of him, Arthur pretends not to hear, or if he does he treats it in the same way that he treats most things that annoy him – by ignoring it. (Merlin knows that he is the one great exception to this rule, and rather revels in it.)

The answer comes by the sudden and abrupt appearance of what looks like three common hens, swooping in awkwardly from the east. From where he walks behind, Merlin finds that he is as much of a seer as Morgana is, the immediate future suddenly presenting itself to him in humorously _frightening_ clarity.

“Arthur, d-” He gets no further before the lead hen, with a decidedly acrobatic dive, (containing at least one spiral roll, Merlin thinks, idly), deposits its load directly upon Arthur’s head. The “uck” comes out as hen number two swerves to the side, but still manages to score a direct hit on Arthur’s left shoulder; leaving the third, and thankfully last, hen to decorate his right.

An awful second passes where Merlin’s not too sure whether to run and hide, or laugh out loud, before Arthur shakes off the paralysis that seemed to overtake him with the first...gift and stalks rapidly across the remaining flagstones and up the stairs. There’s an unspoken order in the tenseness of Arthur’s muscles, the way the tendons are nearly popping from under his skin and Merlin follows without needing to be summoned.

They travel in silence throughout the castle, Merlin meekly following the white, speckled and bedecked Prince as he doesn’t halt once, ignoring all smothered giggles and pointed stares.

In one way, Merlin’s glad. He doesn’t think the executioner could keep up with the amount of beheadings Arthur’s pride would demand. As soon as he is inside Arthur’s chambers, he notices that Arthur is already pulling the clothes from his body. He holds the soiled jacket away from him as if it’s poisonous, whole stance screaming of his distaste.

“Bath, _now_ Merlin.” Smiling to himself, Merlin deposits the spoils of their hunting trip on the table and busies himself getting things ready. From behind him he feels the shift of air as Arthur strips, the image vivid in his mind as he averts his eyes. “I swear, tomorrow I’m going out to kill the first chicken I see.”

And with that, a small chuckle escapes Merlin’s lips, the hilarity of the day becoming far too much.

The only warning he gets is the sudden rush of air, and then Arthur’s breeches land squarely on his head, Arthur’s low snigger coming shortly after.

Sometimes chickens have a lot to answer for.

**Day 2 – The Feast**

**Four Colly Birds**

Thankfully the rest of the night was uneventful and Merlin was soon released to drag himself back to his bed to sleep. When he woke, early the next morning, he dressed quickly and made his way back to Arthur’s chambers. After the fowl, (pun intended), mood he’d left him in the night before, he knew it was best to be punctual.

In the end, he needn’t have bothered.

As soon as he opens the door the first sight he sees is Arthur, slumped in his chair, one hand propping his head up, chin resting idly on his closed fist. He looks shattered. As well as dishevelled – a usual look if there has been a large feast the night before, but as Merlin knows only too well, there hasn’t. In fact, the large feast is scheduled for that very night, but Arthur looks in no mood for it or the preparations that need to be attended to today.

Stepping further into the room he manages to move silently around the table, noticing that Arthur’s eyes are seemingly closed tight against the meagre daylight. Pausing, he glances back at the bed – the covers thrown to one side, bunched and discarded as if in a sudden fit of temper – and then back to Arthur, trying to put two and two together and get the inevitable five that he so often does with things concerning the Prince.

He fails spectacularly.

“If you keep staring like that, I shall have to put a screen up.” Merlin starts at Arthur’s voice, and then looks behind himself again, just in case someone else has come in and made a noise. “And if you think _that’s_ creeping, then we _really_ need to work on your stealth skills.” Of course, he may not have been as silent as thought he’d been.

Ducking his head he shakes it, bemused, before a quiet chirping pulls his attention. Turning towards the windows he hears Arthur groan from beside him, the sound one of long-term suffering – he recognises it instantly – it’s the same sound that he had made far too often at the beginning of his employ as Arthur’s servant; but now all he feels is mild sympathy at the sound.

Walking nearer to the window the warbling of birds becomes clearer, and so too does the different sounds; low _pook-pook_ calls merge with a higher, coarser _seee_ that is bordering on aggressive. Underpinning it all is a rhythmic _chook, chook_ cry that gradually grates on Merlin’s nerves far more than Arthur ever could.

“Arthur...” His voice trails off, completely at a loss as to how to phrase his question. Somehow ‘are you being stalked by birds?’ doesn’t quite fit the requirements.

“They’ve been at it _all night_ , Merlin.” He doesn’t want to clarify what _it_ is, especially as he catches sight of a small group of rather odd and far too familiar shaped birds perched on the opposite battlements. Pressing his face against the glass, Merlin manages to spy the four blackbirds that seem to have got day and night confusingly mixed up.

“And I don’t expect you have any idea-”

“If I knew _why_ , I would have got some bloody sleep, wouldn’t I?” Arthur groans again and Merlin turns, catching sight of him rubbing hard at his eyes. “Please tell me I’m not imagining things, and that those other birds are the ones from yesterday?” Biting his lip Merlin debates lying. There’s no way Arthur could prove the deception, but in a way he doesn’t want to. This is far too bizarrely entertaining.

“I don’t want to lie to you, so I think I’ll choose to remain respectfully dumb on that,” he inclines his head, “Sire.”

“For once,” Arthur bites out with a wry shake of his head. “I suppose I had better try and get ready for today...” And possibly, just for a tiny instant, Merlin feels unaccountably sympathetic towards the Prince and the fact that only he could make the odd arrangement for a feast sound so taxing.

**Five Gold Rings**

Of course, what with the constant chirruping from outside and the fact he has to deal with a nearly comatose Arthur, Merlin feels that there’s not much more that could add to the already surreal turn his life has taken.

That is until he finishes tightening the last fastening on Arthur’s clothes and turns to pick up his scabbard from where it was lying on the table.

It’s not there.

In the space where not only Arthur’s scabbard, but sword and dagger had once laid, are five perfectly shaped, glistening golden rings.

Merlin closes his mouth with a concerted effort, his fingers brushing against the cool metal as if drawn to it. Letting one ring slip onto the tip of his finger, Merlin lifts it up, into the light, all too aware of Arthur’s gaze upon both him and the ring.

“What _is_ going on?” Arthur’s voice is far from angry, now all Merlin can hear is genuine confusion, met and matched by his own. As he twists his finger this way and that, Merlin can just make out faint filigree on the metal, a pattern of spirals and loops burnt into its surface.

“I honestly have no idea,” _but I may know someone who does_ , Merlin finishes silently. There is only one creature he knows of that would have any hope of the fine detailing present on the rings, and when he looks back at the other random appearances during the past twenty-four hours, everything begins to make terrifying sense.

Reaching past him, Arthur picks up one of the rings himself, sliding it onto his forefinger experimentally. It is, of course, a perfect fit.

Someone was due a stern talking to. If Merlin ever makes it through the rest of the day, that is.

**Six Geese A-Laying**

The birds quietened down as soon as Arthur began to eat breakfast. Merlin saw the tension drain out of him as their cries died away to nothing, the weariness crashing over him all at once instead. Once he had nearly fallen asleep, his arm just about to give way and send him face first into the bowl, but Merlin reached out and steadied him.

The new rings remained on the table, shining and accusatory and the more Merlin looked at them, the more he knew he was right. Not only that, but the worse his anger and guilt became. It didn’t help matters that Arthur had taken to fiddling with one, slightly smaller than all the rest; the one that Merlin just knew would be a perfect fit on his own hand.

Thankfully the feast meant that Arthur couldn’t dwell on random occurrences for long. Leaving the rings where they sat, they both left his chambers and journeyed down into the kitchens on the first assignment of the day.

They heard the laughter before even reaching the door.

Usually, the kitchens were a source of fun and warmth whatever the weather; cold or hot, you were always welcome. However, the raucous noises coming from inside startled even Merlin.

When they finally entered, the reason for the hilarity was soon apparent. Geese: six of them to be precise, all in a line along the heavy wooden table in the middle of the large room. A small group of servants were standing around and it was these that they could hear coming down the corridor. For a while both Merlin and Arthur stood in the doorway, simply watching the scene unfold.

It all started with the goose at the far end; as if on cue it would raise its head, let out an almighty honk, and then deposit a large, white egg upon the table. The waiting servant stationed behind the goose would then pick this up and place it in a basket behind them. As soon as the first goose had honked its announcement, so the next one would take it up, and so on, down the line until goose number six. The precision was breath-taking, but the steadily growing piles of eggs in the baskets were astounding.

Arthur slowly and very deliberately backed out of the kitchen, his orders completely forgotten.

“Something tells me all these… _occurrences_ are related.” Gritting his teeth Merlin’s lips tighten into a thin line, already knowing that what Arthur is saying is the complete truth.

“What do you think we should do?” There’s an especially loud shriek from the kitchen, along the lines of ‘look at the size of that one!’ and they both pointedly ignore it.

“I wish I knew. I can’t exactly tell my father we have magic animals, now, can I?” He sighs at the futility of it, and Merlin curses his big mouth, yet again. “No, we leave it until I can deal with it, or I have a better knowledge of who is doing this.” A faint _chook, chook_ noise comes drifting down to them from higher in the castle, followed by what sounds suspiciously like a hen, clucking. “Sooner rather than later, though.”

And Merlin can’t agree more.

**Seven Swans A-Swimming**

Nothing out of the ordinary happens for the rest of the morning. Well, apart from Merlin managing to completely garble a message to the guards which results in them inadvertently posting extra bowmen on the battlements to watch for a supposed aerial attack from god alone knows what. But that, at least, is what Arthur’s _used_ to. What he isn’t used to, is what happens as the sun is dipping low in the sky and the majority of the towns people are beginning to settle down for the coming night and chill air.

No, not only is Arthur, and likewise by default Merlin, not prepared for the sight which greets them on an innocent journey across the courtyard, but neither are the people.

Seven swans. Strategically placed across the entire courtyard, so still that from a distance he has the notion that they’re dead; an idea that’s only proved wrong after he strides up to one and pokes it firmly with the toe of his boot.

Poking a swan is not advisable. Under any circumstances, but apparently especially those where you believe magic may be involved, however minutely.

Merlin watches, in turns amused and half concerned for his own safety, as Arthur takes off across the courtyard, the swan in question following closely after; wings outspread and a scrap of Arthur’s breeches in its beak. The remaining six seem content to ignore the fuss, not even moving when Arthur leaps over two of them to escape, and Merlin finds himself realising that there’s more to their stubbornness than first meets the eye. The positioning, the way they’re all facing seems to appear staged so as best to give the impression they’re out for a romantic swim along some far-flung river and not stationary in Camelot’s courtyard.

Merlin frowns and then halts. He has the overwhelming feeling that things are about to get worse instead of better.

**Eight Maids A-Milking**

If there’s one thing that Merlin really hates, it’s being proved right. Particularly if in doing so it involves Uther summoning Arthur to the great hall mere hours before the feast is to begin.

At least the guard has the decency to look a little embarrassed, but Merlin can hardly blame him, it’s not every day you knock on the Prince’s door for it to be opened by a half-dressed Arthur, and his servant darning swan pecked breeches.

But then again, this is turning out to be a day unlike any other.

Once Arthur has determined that his presence is more than required, but _insisted_ upon, he sighs heavily and Merlin fetches whatever pair of breeches he can find. They’re both apprehensive as they follow the guard, a steadily growing unease that consumes them the closer they get to the hall. That feeling is only intensified by the sound of female voices raised in chatter and bursts of song. Arthur shoots Merlin a look that he feels has a touch of accusation to it, but he shrugs, completely innocently in reply, (even though he knows he’s at least complicit in this particular instant).

The guard resumes his post, sparing a bemused look at them both before fixing his eyes ahead, and Arthur pushes through the doors without preamble. What greets them is a sight far more bizarre than any they have seen yet, and that is saying far more than either of them is willing to admit.

Uther is sat at the head of the hall just as normal, his throne large and imposing. The whole effect, though, is completely undermined by the addition of, (and here Merlin has to do a quick check), eight maids. If they were alone, the scene may only be mildly unsettling, but, of course, today being today, they are as far from being alone as Arthur is from being King, (which is growing further by the second). Spread around the hall, and in front of where the maids are perched upon small stools, are eight fine examples of the best milking cows Merlin has had the pleasure of seeing. From beside him Arthur allows a strangled grunt to fall from his lips, his own eyes focussed on how each maid is milking the cows in perfect time with the others.

The hall is filled with the rhythmic splashing of expelled milk, punctuated by the odd lowing and snatches of song.

Not a word is spoken. Uther’s face has enough expression upon it to make speech redundant, eyes first fastening on Arthur, and then Merlin who gets the sinking feeling that he may be about to have his own personal set of stocks built for him.

“I don’t care _how_ this happened, I expect you to deal with it. Do you understand?” As the words finally fall into the air, heavy as lead, they both flinch. Every muscle in Merlin’s body is screaming at him to move, to run, and somehow he knows Arthur feels exactly the same. Waiting for what seems like an age, Uther nods, once, and they both turn, darting from the sight before them as if their backsides are on fire.

As soon as they’re outside, Merlin makes his excuses and hurries away. There’s someone with a lot of explaining to do and he is determined for once they’re going to do it.  
Nine Ladies Dancing

The steps down to the cave are as steep as ever, but Merlin takes them at a trot. He’s far too aware of not only the dragon’s perverse sense of humour, but also the fact that he may have accidentally provoked this strange reaction.

He skids to a halt on the rocky outcrop, expecting to have to call the dragon like so many times before. This time, he doesn’t. In fact, the dragon is already there, lounging over the parapet opposite him, legs folded serenely and an expression of mild curiosity on his face.

“What have you done?” he manages to get the words out between pants, and if he didn’t think it was impossible, Merlin could swear that the dragon is actually smirking at him.

“Me, young warlock?” The tone is far too innocent, the golden eyes glowing with barely contained merriment and Merlin clenches his fists.

“Well I don’t see who else could make all these...these… _whatever_ they are, suddenly appear!” A low rumble echoes around the cavern.

“They’re gifts, warlock, just as you requested. It was you who came to me, after all and suggested it.” The yawning pit of terror inside Merlin grows at the words, his fears confirmed as he swallows heavily.

“I didn’t mean for you to do that, though! I only said...” And here he trails off, his own words coming back to haunt him in the worst way possible.

“Yes?” This time the dragon doesn’t keep the glee from his voice and Merlin realises that yes, actually, dragons can smirk almost as well as Arthur does.

“You know I didn’t mean for all this to happen!” Bowing, the dragon tosses his head from side to side, shaking it.

“’I’m fed up of lying to him, I wish just once I could show him I care...’ Were they not your words, little warlock?” And Merlin knows, then, that not only is the dragon taking great pleasure out of bombarding Arthur with these gifts, but that nothing he will say will make him stop.

“You know what I meant.” It comes out petulantly, and he barely holds himself back from stamping his foot.

“Ah, young love. You must iron out these creases in the road, or the journey ahead of you will be very rough indeed.” And with that, the dragon leaps upwards, his laughter reverberating throughout the cave as he goes.

Merlin waits a beat before spitting a rather colourful and physically impossible order after him, and then turns, moving back up the stairs far slower than he came down.

He ignores the hilarity that seems to be taking place in the corridor to the great hall; a group of Arthur’s Knights trying to herd cattle out of the castle, whilst what appear to be nine fair ladies try to dance with them. Instead, he blocks the cries and bubbling voices from his mind and makes a determined effort to reach Arthur’s rooms. Perhaps there he’ll finally get some peace.

**Ten Lords A-Leaping**

He dresses Arthur far slower that evening. The cows have been banned from the castle grounds, the maids with them, and the ladies have been placed in another wing to dance to their heart’s delight. If only he felt as joyous as them. He can feel Arthur’s eyes on him as well as the dragon’s presence; a mischievous spectre in the back of his mind. Every time he turns around, he expects to see yet more animals appear, or, god forbid, more people. There’s no way they can try to brush this off without someone, (more than likely him), getting the blame _and_ punishment.

“Merlin...” The way Arthur has been looking at him has been unsettling to say the least. All large blue eyes and intent gazes. He’s been coping with it in the best way he knows how: by ignoring it.

“Yes, Sire?”

“Do you have any idea why this is happening?” His fingers slip on the buckle to Arthur’s jacket and he begins again, deliberately not making eye contact.

“No, Sire, none at all.”

“Strange. I mean, it only seems to be occurring around, well. Us, or near to us, anyway.” Sometimes Merlin was astounded, and aggravated by Arthur’s seemingly random bursts of intuitiveness.

“I have no idea what you mean,” _but I’m going to personally make sure that the dragon never hears the last of this_...

“You know, one day when you answer me, I’ll know you’re telling me the whole truth. I’ll let you get away with it now, but Merlin,” Arthur’s tone carries no chance of escape – he must look at him and he does, reluctantly, “whatever this is, I know it’s something to do with you. And I _will_ expect answers.”

Merlin’s mouth falls open; to deny or agree he’s not sure, because at that moment they hear the sound of banging at the door and the moment shatters.

“The feast – they’re waiting.” And Arthur simply nods his agreement, waving his hand for Merlin to precede him out of his chambers.

Thankfully nothing appears on their way to the great hall. In fact, if you didn’t know what had happened earlier, you would be hard pressed to spot any sign of disturbance, but as good as Arthur’s Knights are, cow dung tends to stick – the smell lingering long after the animals have left. Screwing up their noses, they hurry through the corridors, walking straight into the hall.

Merlin almost feels relieved, if a little disappointed. Perhaps the dragon has listened to him after all and no more gifts will appear. It only takes another hour for that hope to be dashed to pieces. 

They’re in between courses, Merlin refilling Arthur’s goblet and pointedly avoiding eye contact, when they hear the heavy beat of feet on the flagstones outside. Everyone freezes, eyes turning in unison to look at the doors as they swing open to reveal ten men dressed in gaudy outfits and leaping past one another in what appears to be a type of dance.

Merlin immediately flushes and out of the corner of his eye he sees Arthur look at him immediately. Neither of them risks looking at Uther, but after a few moments of joyous dancing, they hear clapping begin from the head of the table, Uther’s enthusiastic voice ringing out in apparent enjoyment of the spectacle.

At least this is one gift that _someone_ appreciates, thinks Merlin wryly.

**Day 2 – After the Feast**

**Eleven Pipers Piping (with Twelve Drummers Drumming in Accompaniment)**

As soon as the feast is over, and the things cleared away, Merlin tries to make his escape. Arthur, however, is having none of it. He’s far too sober for Merlin’s liking, and on top of that he can still feel the magic in the air; the dragon isn’t finished yet. Just as he’s about to slip away he feels a hand grasp his elbow tightly, a gasp falling from his lips as he’s steered to one side of the hall and pressed against the wall.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Arthur’s face is far too close to his and Merlin’s eyes dart over his shoulder to where Uther is sitting, now slumped in his chair looking far too enamoured of a young girl on his right and completely oblivious to everything else.

“Bed?” he asks hopefully, quickly amending his answer when he sees Arthur’s eyes narrow. “I mean, if I’m not required any more, that is.” Arthur’s gaze flicks over his face and Merlin’s stomach tightens, nervously.

“And what if I said your services _were_ still required?” There’s something about the way that Arthur says _services_ that is making Merlin’s head spin even though the closest he’s got to drinking anything tonight is sniffing the wine as he’s poured it into Arthur’s goblet. Somehow, he knows that alcohol has nothing to do with the sudden heat between them, nor the knowing and all too predatory glint surfacing in Arthur’s eyes.

“Then,” he swallows heavily, “I’d have to stay and tend to your needs... Sire...” As soon as the words are out of his mouth he’s painfully aware that they are the wrong ones to use, or, if this were at any other time, possibly the _right_ ones. Arthur appears to agree with the latter thought as he leans even closer to Merlin, pressing their thighs and other, very _awake_ areas, together. “Oh… _oh_ ,” Merlin parrots Arthur’s earlier incoherency back at him, but all he gets is a far too lecherous wink and Arthur’s hand skimming down his arm until it reaches his hand.

“I think you can attend me better in my rooms, yes?” And now there’s no escaping exactly what Arthur wants, but at the same time, there’s no hiding the fact that yes, actually, Merlin wants this too – perhaps even more if the pressure in his trousers is anything to go by.

“Won’t your father wonder...” As if to punctuate the thought, Uther’s laughter breaks through their bubble and they both turn to look at him. The image Merlin sees is one he’d rather try and forget, the young maiden, (of course he’s _assuming_ she’s a maiden, although by the way she’s acting he feels he needs to re-evaluate that assumption), gently stroking Uther’s up thigh as he gazes at her with what Merlin hopes is impotent lust. Arthur’s fingers gently, but firmly, pull Merlin’s face back to his.

“He’s busy. Besides, I want to see just what I have to do to get you to finally reveal _all_ your secrets – and I don’t plan on stopping until I do.” With that Arthur begins to lead Merlin around the hall, staying close to the walls and out of the reach of the many fawning guests. Idly Merlin wonders if this is the final ‘gift’ from the dragon, but soon the thought flies from his head as Arthur moves to open the doors.

His hand never touches the handle.

Instead, the doors burst inward in a cacophony of sound; the droning of many untamed beasts combined with the rat-a-tat-tat of raucous drumming. They both stumble backwards, momentarily struck dumb by the sight of nearly two dozen men marching into the great hall playing musical instruments with a fervour that steals their breath.

Arthur only allows his confusion to last a few seconds and then Merlin finds himself moving _through_ the hoard, a very determined Arthur dragging him on until they break out into the hall beyond.

“I know this is all something to do with you, Merlin.” There’s no point to answering, so Merlin remains silent, head whirling as he tries to keep up with everything that’s happening. “And I want you to know,” Arthur abruptly stops outside his chamber, and Merlin wonders in some small part of his mind at the speed they got there, before Arthur’s pushing him against yet another wall, “that if it was all to get my attention, it worked.” And then he’s kissing him. Arthur Pendragon, Crown Prince of Camelot is devouring _his_ mouth; lips, teeth and tongue all working to subdue him.

Merlin has to admit, it’s not a bad thing to submit to.

Just as he’s beginning to return the kiss with equal enthusiasm, Arthur breaks it, tugs at the door beside them and drags Merlin inside.

 _Somewhere_ , Merlin thinks, half hysterical with how good it feels to be manhandled backward on to the bed, _the dragon will really be enjoying this_...

But then all thought of what the dragon may or may not be thinking fades from Merlin’s mind as Arthur tumbles down to land on top of him, his lips immediately being seized again as Arthur begins rocking their hips together in a way that makes Merlin’s eyes roll back into his head.

No, perhaps this hasn’t _really_ been the worst day in his life; gifts notwithstanding.

And from somewhere outside all that can be heard is the _chook, chook_ of birds at rest.


End file.
